


A Scarecrow Is Born

by thebooklord15



Series: The Unprofessional Universe [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Prequel to 'Frighteningly Unprofessional', a E.A Poe reference, angst-a-plenty, coming of age(?), dare ya to find it, jon is a book nerd, no beta we die like men, scarecrow kills grandma keeny, there is religion/religion bashing, this is gruesome my lads, this is my rendition of scarecrow's origin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24755473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebooklord15/pseuds/thebooklord15
Summary: Jonathan was used to his grandmother's punishments, cruel and unusual as they might be.One day, the scarecrow watching over the fields whispers the secret to his freedom. He listens and the world is a worse place because of it.
Relationships: None
Series: The Unprofessional Universe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821808
Kudos: 9





	A Scarecrow Is Born

_‘Is there something wrong?’ she said,_

_Well of course there is,_

_‘You’re still alive’ she said._

_Oh, and do I deserve to be?_

_Is that the question?_

_And if so,_

_If so,_

_Who answers?_

_\- Pearl Jam, ‘Alive’._

  
  


The Georgia sun beat down with a merciless sort of fury. Whether you were a barn cat chasing mice or a fly on a horse’s ass was of no concern to the heat. None were spared from it’s wrath. 

Not even a seventeen year old stick of a boy named Jonathan Crane, who had been given the daunting task of tending to the cornfields. Even in the early hours of this March afternoon the sun continued to exact its revenge.

Jonathan groaned and wiped a gloved hand over his damp forehead. His curled locks were stuck to it. He was usually thankful for his hair being a bit on the thicker side, as it did a good job at protecting his scalp from sunburns. On days like this he hated it for making it feel at least one thousand degrees hotter outside.

“Get back to work boy! Corn won’t plant itself!” Granny’s sharp warble cut through the air. He called out a tired “Yes ma’am,” before complying. 

He sighed and trundled along with the garden seeder. About four more rows and he would be done. If he was lucky he might be able to sneak in some time to read. He’d managed to score a book of short stories from Edgar Allen Poe, and though he absolutely adored his copy of _Uylesses_ he’d read it at least a hundred times over and a change of pace would be welcomed.

Jonathan muttered an obscenity under his breath as a bee collided with his glasses. He smacked the bug away and pressed on. He hoped it got stuck under the garden seeder and buried in its wake. 

Despite his aversion to doing farm work altogether, he would dare to venture that he was fond of the machine. It certainly trumped having to plant the seeds one by one with an old hoe like he used to. The one gift Granny had ever given him and it was a tool to do her bidding. 

Sometimes he wished he could bury Granny under the garden seeder too.

_I could take her_ , he thought idly. _I’ve got at least a foot and a half on her._ _Might not have that much muscle but neither does she._

He imagined it for a moment: she’d probably be screaming, hurling biblical taunts at him telling him all about how he’d go to hell, how he’d burn for his sin. Maybe she would try to fight back, clawing at the dirt as it covered her, smothering her howls. Or maybe she wouldn’t. She might just realise that this was her fate, her righteous punishment for all the shit she put him through. It would be _her_ turn to watch in horror her turn to be the one helpless to the crows-

The crows. Swirling black masses descending like a plague from the sky. Granny would be smiling then, because they’d come when she called to them, they _always_ came and this time they wouldn’t spare him they’d just rip and tear and bite and peck and she would enjoy it, wouldn’t she? She’d laugh and laugh and he would scream because it _burned_ and it smelled like copper and grits and _oh God_ they wear devouring him and he couldn’t escape-!

A sharp sting on his forearm brought him back to reality. Jonathan hissed and swatted at the offender. The bee had circled back around, deciding to exact it’s revenge. 

He took a deep breath. In, and then out. 

Just to be safe he cast a glance back toward the house, where his grandmother usually sat.

The old crone was currently watching his progress from beneath the shade of the patio table’s umbrella. As usual there was a glass of iced tea clutched in her withered claws and a scrutinizing look written onto her powdered old face. He frowned and pushed the seeder with a little more force than necessary. If the old bitch thought _he_ was doing such a shit job, why didn’t she get off her bony ass and do it herself?

Probably because she’d sooner burn her bible than do anything nice for anyone but herself.

He couldn’t say that doing just that hadn’t crossed his mind. He’d gotten pretty close to it before; his bic lighter grasped tightly in one fist, the paper-backed bible in the other. In the end he’d chickened out. Granny would beat the devil out of him when she found out. He was the only person she lived with, so he would be the obvious culprit. Though he suspected that even if that weren’t the case she would blame him anyway. Everything was always his fault according to her.

Mice in the cellar? Jonathan must have left something down there.

Bad crops? Jonathan must have planted the seeds wrong.

Weather was bad? Jonathan hadn’t been praying enough.

Arthritis acting up? Must be from all the stress that _Jonathan_ caused her! (As ludicrous as it sounded it had actually happened to him; Granny had refused to feed him until the pain lessened and he ended up going hungry for three days.)

He swore that woman had two talents: finding reasons to punish him and creating cruel and unusual ways to do so.

His eyes flitted to the lone scarecrow watching over the barren fields. He cringed and looked away. The scabs on littering his arms throbbed as they remembered the day of their birth.

_Focus Jon. One more row and then you’re home free._

With the last of his energy he shoved the garden seeder to the end of the last row. He sighed in relief. Swiped at his forehead again. His skin felt hot and sticky. He was probably sunburnt again, but he could worry about that later.

All he had to do now was water everything. The thought of spending another thirty minutes out in the heat made him groan. He hadn’t eaten yet and he was starting to feel lightheaded.

Nonetheless he soldiered on.

He marched over to the porch, looking anywhere but at Granny. The old woman did the exact opposite, fixing him with a scowl as if his very presence disgusted her. It probably did. If that was the case the feeling was mutual.

Trying his best to ignore the stare he climbed up the rickety steps, all of which squealed under his weight, and retrieved the watering can by the back door. 

Just as he started to head down the steps Granny tutted and waved him over. With a defeated sigh he obliged. 

He stuck his free hand in the pocket of his dirt covered overalls and looked at the porch floor. The wood had faded to a morose gray color.

“Ya almost done boy?” Granny asked. She took an unnecessarily loud sip of her drink.

“Yes’um. Just gotta water it now.” His throat felt dry and itchy. Had he drank anything today? Jonathan couldn’t recall doing so.

“Well hurry up! It’s too damn hot outside.” 

You _think it’s hot outside?! You’re not the one wearing two layers and working in the fields bitch!_

Jonathan bit his tongue. Literally. 

“Yes ma’am.”

She jerked her head in the direction of the fields. A silent dismissal. Jonathan felt a fraction of relaxation. He made it down the steps this time. 

After a sharp left at the bottom of the stairs he found the garden hose. There was a brief struggle before it came untangled. The handle wasn’t any easier to deal with. It was so old and rusted for that for a moment Jonathan was genuinely concerned that it had broken. Finally it relented and turned.

Water burbled from the it’s nozzle. He took the opportunity to splash a little onto his face. He gave a contented sigh at its cool kiss. Although he would’ve liked to drink some as well he couldn’t get away with it while Granny was watching him. Jonathan would just have to be satisfied with feeling a bit cooler. 

He filled up the watering can and bid the hose farewell. 

Watering the fields would have been much quicker if they had working sprinklers or an irrigation system of some sort, but seeing as it was just one boy and a two gallon watering can it was a whole production.

Water two rows. Refill. Water two more rows. Refill again.

A vicious cycle turned more hateful under the sun’s berating heat.

Some forty minutes later the last seed had been tended to. Jonathan’s head was buzzing and his ears were ringing. He hoped he didn’t pass out again. Granny left him in dirt when that happened.

  
  


“I’m finished Granny!” He called out, even though she had been monitoring him. Sometimes it just felt good to hear someone affirm that he was done, even if it was himself. 

She tipped her sun-glasses to the end of her hooked nose. Gave his work a once-over. Her lips pursed into a thin line. Begrudgingly she nodded. 

Relieved at his dismissal, Jonathan rushed to put the garden seeder back into the shed. Once that was done he did the same with the watering can, taking a long drink of water from the hose on his way back. He was able to as his grandmother had hobbled back into the safety of the house. It tasted of rust and lead. The relief it brought to his sandpapery throat was orgasmic.

In his exhausted state, he hunkered down next to the hose, taking another gulp of refreshing tap water every now and again. After a few minutes of that had passed he turned it off. He didn’t bother trying to re-wrap it. It would have to be untangled again tomorrow, so what was the point?

Jonathan sighed. Once again the thought crossed his mind: _I could take her._

It is followed by another, more insistent query: _Why do I even listen to her?_

His eyes landed on the lone scarecrow, looking out onto a now barren corn-field. 

A stitched frown could just barely be made out onto it’s burlap face. _You know why, coward,_ it whispered. His scars burned. Hooked talons. Persistent beaks. The crows with their gleaming evil eyes.

Suddenly he felt the need to be inside. Right then, preferably.

Though it was an effort he picked himself up. Didn’t bother dusting off his overalls. They existed in a perpetual state of filth anyhow. Dirt is a constant in farm life and he had learned to accept it.

He made his third trek up the porch. Before he went inside he peeked through the screen door. The kitchen was vacant. That is a good thing, and will make his life just a little bit easier.

Cautiously, Jonathan opened the door and absconded into the kitchen. The tiles squeaked under his rubber boots, and he froze, ears perked like an animal’s. For a beat there was silence. Then the gentle creaking of wood. Granny must be in her rocking chair. That meant she was in the next room over, the living room. He would have to go about this stealthily.

The target was within his sight. On the circular dining table was a bowl filled to the brim with a variety of fruits. Jonathan’s target was the peach on the top. 

Slowly he took one step. There is nothing that indicates Granny heard, so he takes another. And then another. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears. His heart thumped wildly in his rib-cage. She’s going to find out and when she does he’ll get tied up and left for the crows again and he doesn’t think he can survive it because next time they’ll kill him they’ll peck out his eyes and eat his lungs he just _knows_ it-

Before he had the time to overthink himself into a panic attack he reached the table. With unsteady hands he grasped the fruit and removed it. When the world didn’t end he allowed himself to relax a little bit. He pocketed his breakfast. That would be the easy part of this heist.

Though he wasn’t unfamiliar with moving contraband past Granny it still was a task that daunted him. He took a deep breath, held it for three seconds and exhaled.

_Come on Jon. You’ve done worse and gotten away with it. This should be nothing._

So why did it always feel like something?

His stomach gurgled quietly. If he wanted to make it to the barn without fainting he needed to hurry. He ran a hand through his hair. When he couldn’t feel the sweaty locks on his palm he panicked. Then he remembered that he still had his gloves on. Scoffing at his silly overreaction, he shucked them off and put them in his other pocket.

He looked at the kitchen doorway. He couldn’t see his grandmother from here but if he closed the four foot gap between the table and the exit he would. She’d be knitting another ratty blanket that would get used once, maybe twice, before squirreling it away in the hall closet with the rest. 

Because of the rotten wood floorboards in the house she would be able to hear his passing. There was no way to avoid acknowledging her. She would probably want to know where he was going. He decides he’ll lie about going to the library again. Granny never leaves the house anyways and she never spoke to anyone outside of Jonathan: there is absolutely no way she’ll find out. 

That doesn’t stop the fear of being caught from twisting around in Jonathan's insides. He tries to ignore the macabre feeling and look as composed as he possibly can. After another minute of silent preparation he decided he was ready.

He crept into the living room. The peach weighed heavy in his pocket.

Granny gave no sign of acknowledgement. She simply kept rocking back and forth in her rickety old chair.

Jonathan, despite his overwhelming sense of dread, found the courage to speak. 

“Ma’am?” 

She grunted in response. 

“I was thinking about walking down to the library for a little bit. Is that alright?” He hated how meek he sounded.

She stopped rocking for a moment to consider his preposition.

“Your room clean?” 

“Yes’um.”

“Ya feed the chickens?” She had been watching him when he did.

“Yes’um.” 

“Ya really goin’ to the library?”

“Yes’um.”

She clucked her tongue angrily. It made Jonathan feel like he’d won something for once. 

“Fine. Just be back before five, and not a second after y'hear?” 

“Yes ma’am.” Success! And she hadn’t even noticed the peach.

Jonathan zipped across the living room, though the hall and into his bedroom. Once the door was closed he did a silent fist pump. 

He shucked out of his overalls and boots. There wasn’t anyone in his life that he was trying to impress, but he had enough pride to not risk being seen in his dirty old farming outfit.

Not to say that his regular clothing was designer: most of it was second-hand from his deceased grandfather or from Goodwill.

Jonathan didn’t waste much time on his outfit. It was around two thirty, therefore he only had two and a half hours to himself. Blue jeans, a belt from the bottom of his closet, a wrinkled grey flannel and his brown jacket seemed fine. As for shoes he decided on his favorite pair of moccasins.

He isn’t exactly dressed for the heat, but that hardly matters.

The abandoned barn, which Jonathan had come to think of as his true home, has plenty of shade to hide within, so he’ll be fine.

The barn in question is just a few miles outside town on a stretch of property that was no longer owned. He’d found it during an escape from bullies in third grade. One day he had found the courage to deny paying the usual toll the fifth graders charged underclassmen on the way home. It was the only path from school out of town, he’d insisted, and it was unfair that they were taxed for using it. The older boys hadn’t taken kindly to this act of insubordination. After being chased by two of the meaner ones- Elrod and Cletus he believed their names were- he’d attempted to lose them by ducking into the fields. Jonathan figured the tall grass might obscure his smaller frame.

A few yards into the tall grass and he’d caught sight of it- a looming figure in the distance. On the off chance he could hide in there he headed towards it.

His tormentors had deemed the place haunted and never followed him inside. Jonathan had taken to seeking the place out to wander in the fields of grassy green or curl up in the strawy loft to read in peace. Eventually the barn had become his own in an odd sort of way. From the families of mice, to the growing patches of foliage that hugged the building’s outside, even down to every piece of hay and straw that littered the creaky floors this had become the one thing that he felt was truly his. Nobody could take that from him.

_Not even Granny,_ he thought, tucking his books inside his jacket. The peach went into his outside pocket. He tucked his hand beside it to obscure the bulge.

She didn’t even glance at him when he left the house.

\----

After his twenty minute trek in the heat the barn appeared like a desert mirage. Beyond the stretches of grass and weeds grasping for the sky, a neglected old barn patiently awaited. The red paint clung to desperately the rotted wood planks. Several shingles had either been beaten off the roof by the weather or simply fallen over time. A silver weather-vane, made to look like a rooster, bravely stood watch on the front of the roof. It was angled sideways but seemingly undeterred by its disability. 

To some this decrepit old building may seem an irrelevant structure, forgotten by the living. To Jonathan it was the garden of eden. As always he was careful opening the door. It was just barely on its hinges. 

The first floor was almost completely dark, save for small bits of light that filtered through the gaps in the wood and holes in the roof. A rich earthy scent carried through the entirety of the building. Jonathan inhaled it deeply and smiled. He’d missed this place, despite having seen it a few days ago. 

His moccasins made no noise as he ventured deeper inside. There was no flooring to this barn: only grass and dirt. A mouse scuttled by his path. He paid the creature no mind. 

The ladder leading to the loft was one of the few things that wasn’t completely falling apart. It wasn’t in pristine condition mind you- the first rung was missing and there was a considerable amount of rust on its metal frame. But it was put together enough that Jonathan did not worry about it collapsing under his weight. (He wasn’t sure he’d worry about anything collapsing under his weight. Despite being 6’2 he was around 125 pounds, at _most_.)

The loft was his favorite part of the barn. There was a large circular window, glass busted out, that he liked to curl up under when he read. Hay was in abundance here so he did not have to deal with the discomfort of sitting on the floor. He’d made himself a pile under the window and was delighted to find it undisturbed. 

With a sigh he plopped down into his makeshift seat. Finally, he is able to fully relax. He fumbled for the peach in his pocket. It was disgustingly warm. 

Although it is not the tastiest meal that Jonathan had partaken in, the insides and juices feeling as if they were alive inside his mouth, it is satisfactory enough. He tossed the skin to the lower level of the barn. A rat or some other sort of vermin will enjoy it. 

He wiped the remaining juices from his mouth. It would have been smart to bring a bottle of water with him. But no, he rationalises, that would have been pushing his luck. He should feel grateful he was able to steal what he could from the tap. 

_At least my headache is gone._

No longer in need of disguise he pulled his novel from his jacket, then shucked it off his shoulders. Although he wasn’t eager to see his arms the heat was starting to become unbearable, so he rolled up the sleeves of his flannel as well. Rows upon rows of scars, old, new, scabbed, and faded greet him. He didn’t linger on them long, placing his gaze with the writings of E.A. Poe instead. 

Besides wordiness that came with the author’s time period, Jonathan found Poe to be a wonderful storyteller. For a while he allowed himself to become enraptured with the raven who cried ‘Nevermore!’ and the man driven mad by an old-man’s vulture eye.

He didn’t realize how tired he was until after he woke up. And when he did, he had quite a start. 

Feeling his forehead be tickled by something fluttery broke his slumber, and he snapped up with a startled gasp. His book flopped out of his grasp, falling shut. He scrubbed his palm against his eye. How long had he been asleep?

He tried to blink the fuzz from his eyes. Maybe he was still half asleep, because the world looked awfully blurry. He shifted his long legs. Pins and needles danced under his skin. There was a quiet clack. His glasses had landed in front of him. They must have fallen off in his slumber. He returned them to his face, and Jonathan found that his sight was restored once more. 

It was dark. Pitch-black, no _sun_ light kind of dark. Suddenly he scrambled to his feet, with protest from his tingling limbs, and clawed at the broken window. Sunset. 

Terror struck him like a cobra. 

“No, no, no! Fuck! _Fuck_!”

Frantically he shucked his jacket back on. Should he leave the books? Granny was going to be beyond furious for his tardiness, so he decided that yes he will leave them here. At least one of them can be spared from her wrath. 

He almost knocked the ladder down with the speed of his descent. This is lost on him in his growing state of panic.

_She’s going to leave me tied up for the crows and they’ll kill me this time, this time it’ll happen, just like in Hitchcock where the girls eyes get pecked out, Oh God I’m dead and then I’ll go straight to hell just like Mom and I don’t wanna die I don’t wanna die-!_

Jonathan collided into the dirt, slipping on the discarded peach skin. He ignored the ache that brought about, instead fueled by his pain to move faster. Once again he picked himself back up.

Jonathan threw open the barn door so hard he was amazed it didn’t pop right off. He tore through the tall grass. Creatures of the night scurried out of his way, giving the terrified boy a wide berth.

Sprinting, he was able to cut the twenty minute distance in half, only slowing when he reached the front door of the house. Then he hesitated. Should he make himself known? Sneak in and pretend she’d missed him earlier? Neither option would spare him. She would still find a reason to punish him. 

He took a deep, shuddering breath. Only one way to find out, he supposed. With shaky hands he opened the door.

Before he even got two steps in, he felt pain explode on the side of his head, and he met the floor for the second time that day.

“There are _six_ things the lord hates, _seven_ that are detestable to him!” Granny boomed.

“Granny _please_ -”

Another whack from her cane, this time to his side. It hits him straight in the ribs. 

“Haughty eyes! A _lying_ tongue!” She spat. Jonathan didn’t dare roll over to face her. There were tears threatening to fall, and he refused to let her see them.

“Hands that shed innocent blood!” A hit to the stomach. All the breath wheezed out of him.

“A heart that devises wicked schemes! Feet that are quick to rush into evil!” Two more strikes from the cane, one to the thigh and the other to his ribs again. He barely registered them, still winded and gasping for air.

“A _false witness_ who pours out _lies_ , and a person who stirs up conflict in the community.” One final whack in the centre of his back.

“It was an _accident_..” He sobbed.

“Rise! Rise and face the wrath of God, sinner!” Granny hissed, seemingly ignoring Jonathan’s cries. 

With shaking arms the boy attempted to push himself off the ground. He must have done so too slowly for Granny’s liking. She swept his arms out from under him with a swipe of her cane. Jonathan’s face thunked painfully back onto the hardwood flooring. “Please,” he whispered. What is he even pleading for at this point? He knows what’s to come. Crows swallowing his vision, tearing at his skin, pecking out his eyes with impossibly sharp beaks. Straw and itchy burlap trapping him to the cross.

Jonathan Crane, human scarecrow.

Hands and arms trembling he pulled himself up. He towered over his grandmother, who just barely reached the five foot mark. That did nothing to soothe him.

Grabbing one of his shaking wrists, talon-like nails digging into his skin, she marched them along a path all too familiar. 

Heart-pounding with each step he was led into the basement. You would think, after a whole life time of this sickening routine, that the flickering lights and rickety steps of the basement would have no effect on Jonathan. That the smell of rat-shit and hominy grits wouldn’t bother him.

But as Jonathan had discovered, the passage of time seemed to do neither of these things. His stomach churned when the scent hit him. The light’s erratic pattern made him flinch. Despite knowing it was there he still tripped on the missing step on the bottom.

He was embarrassed to say he was still crying.

Beside the washer and dryer and washer there was a chipped dining-room table. On it were the two things Jonathan had come to dread the most. A pot of hominy grits, swirling with steam. 

An empty scarecrow costume, who’s stitched frown regarded him forlornly.

\---

Briefly, Jonathan was reminded of Christ on the day of his death. From what he could remember Jesus was walking up a great, looming hill with the cross he was to be nailed into strapped on his back. Granny led him into a corn field, not up a hill, and the cross was already there so he didn’t have to carry it. 

Would Jesus be afraid too, he wondered? Surely he would be. The son of Christ might not have been shaking so violently or sniveling and weeping as he was, but he must have felt some sort of fear, apprehension at least. 

Or, maybe that wasn’t right. Jesus had said something about _“willingly dying for the sins of the people”_ hadn’t he?

It didn’t matter anyway. There was no God, therefore no Jesus. Only the crows and Jonathan. 

And, as always, the fear.

Granny stopped, and Jonathan almost slammed into her. He’d wipe the tears from his face if he could. The burlap of the scarecrow mask clung to the grits Granny had poured onto his skin. Thankfully the burning had stopped. It only itched for the time being.

Granny turned to face him, a malicious glint in her cloudy eyes. 

“May God have mercy on your soul, _devil-child_ , so that you might still be saved from the fiery pits of hell.”

He looked up at the cloudless night sky, anticipating the arrival of the crows. Moonlight reflected from the scythe, which was propped against the base of the cross, awaiting to be used to cut his binds off when Granny decided he’d redeemed himself. He didn’t see those winged-rats yet but that didn’t mean they weren’t on their way.

Jonathan swallowed nervously. His throat tasted of his own salty tears. 

Upon hearing no answer, Granny’s lips pulled into a cruel wrinkled grimace. 

“What do we say to those who show us kindness boy?” she growled.

Jonathan knew exactly what she wanted him to say. She wanted him to bow his head, presumably too guilty to meet her gaze, and say _“Thank you Granny, for setting me straight.”_ Like the good dog she’d trained him to be.

The words were just under his tongue. He opened his mouth, resigned once more to his painful fate. 

Then he caught a glimpse of the scarecrow he was to replace. Naked of it’s burlap uniform, it had been reduced to clumps of straw loosely bonded together with manila rope. Helplessly it laid at the foot of the cross.

It’s featureless, straw filled face, stared at his own.

_Is this what you want?_ it seemed to ask, _To be nothing more than this?_

A cold chill crept up his spine. It contrasted with the icy burn he felt in each and every one of his scars, old and new.

_What can I do?_ he wanted to ask. _There’s no way out!_

“Speak up boy!” Granny cried. She raised her cane, threatening to strike him with it again. There was a tremor in her aged hands. For a moment, Jonathan was dumbstruck at just how old she looked. Arthritis bunched joints, thin gray hairs framing her wrinkling evil face.

And then her eyes. Pale blue, irises, pupils dilated, the rest of the organ widened..

_With fear._

The epiphany struck him so suddenly he almost gasped. That was why he still obeyed her! It hadn’t been Granny holding power over him; it had been the _fear_ ! He _feared_ the crows, he _feared_ the cane, he _feared_ the smell of hominy grits and the stairs that lead to the basement-

Fear gave power over others.

And Granny feared _him_.

_You must use it!_ , the scarecrow frantically whispered, _it’s your only chance to be free!_

The scythe gleamed at him like an old friend.

Jonathan smiled. There was a way out after all.

“ _Fuck_ you, you old cunt.”

Like an old pick-up truck starting for the first time, a great wheezing gasp tore from Granny’s throat. “Sin!” she hissed. “Blasphemous wicked sin!”

He straightened his spine, and felt his smile widen. It stretched until it warped into a sneer that cut into his cheeks. “You wanna talk about sin, do you? Is it not a _sin_ to beat a child in the name of your God? Or use him as your own personal salve? To deny him of basic human necessities because you're not over your _whore_ daughter pushing him out?”

“The lord demands repentance for sin! And since the whore cannot be punished, the bastard will take her place.”

Jonathan scoffed. “You really think you’d be pleasing God?”

  
  


Confidently, he sauntered forward, closing in on the old woman. “The same God who, according to that horse shit book you swear by-” At that Granny gasped again, shrinking down onto herself “- is ‘all loving’ and ‘ever forgiving’?”

She had been shuffling backward in response to his advances. Her trembling hands gripped her cane in front of him, as if it were a rosary warding off evil. There was a delightful fright powdered onto her face. “Those who have defied the will of our savior deserve no forgiveness! Only the pure and holy!” Granny hissed. 

Jonathan sneered. “John 8:3-7 “Let any one of you who is without sin throw the first stone.” 

Granny yelped, startled to find her back pressed against the cross. The scythe began to tilt to the left, her body shoving it out of its way. 

Jonathan caught it easily. Her eyes followed the movement. It was then that she realized what was to transpire. Jonathan chuckled, almost startled by the dark sound of it.

The cane clattered onto the dirt.

“You’ll burn for this, child!” she whimpered, a feeble attempt to undo what she’d spent his whole life doing to him. “Do this now and you’ll be dragged into hell by Lucifer himself!”

Look at her, a grown woman reduced to tears by a child. How wonderfully _pathetic_ fear had made her! He could almost sympathize with her. It would be easy to get used to this kind of power.

“Tell mom I said hi.” 

Her scream was cut short. Rather, her throat was cut open by the scythe’s blade. 

Blood squirted from the wound like a fountain. He was sprayed with the red liquid. And then he swung again, the second cut overlapping the first. Her body began to slump downwards. She was already dead, Jonathan realized in the back of his mind, he could tell by the stiffness of her body and the lack of light in her eyes. 

But he kept swinging. And swinging. There was barely any of her neck left. Grotesque bits of skin and meat, nothing else. Still he kept on, caught in the haze of the moment, until finally the scythe clunked into something hard. He let go of the weapon, his hands thunking at his sides.

His body piloted itself almost robotically.

Pulling the scythe out of Granny’s spine (he realized that was the hard bit it had gotten stuck in), dragging her body through the field and into the house, prying open the floor boards in the living room, burying her inside, cleaning up the blood, and then finally taking a shower. The bottom of the tub was covered in bits of red stained grits.

And then, in the midst of redressing himself in the bathroom mirror, he caught a glimpse of the bloody scarecrow costume. Only then did he realize what he’d done.

He was seized with terror so quickly and so violently that he wretched into the toilet. Translucent orange bile coated his lips. He wiped it off with the back of his hand, the other one shaking as it gripped the porcelain bowl. 

There had never been a moment in his whole life where he’d been so horrified, so _scared_ to his very core.

And yet, it comforted him.

Closing the lid of the toilet he pushed himself off of his knees. With shaking hands he scooped up the burlap mask from the scarecrow costume. His terror mounted when he saw his reflection: wide frightened eyes, a bloody stitched frown. Still shaking he pinched the sides of the mask and pulled the frown upwards, until it was a smile.

Every inch of him pumped with adrenaline, singing with the fear and exhilaration of his actions. He felt truly alive for the first time in.. _ever_ , really.

He uttered one awe-struck phrase to his new reflection.

“Scarecrow..”

**THE END**

  
  


**_(That is to say, the beginning.)_ **


End file.
